WRITTEN IN LONDON, september 1802. Composed September 1802. Published 1807.
O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom!-We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : The wealthiest man among us is the best : No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore : Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.
MILTON! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on itself did lay.
It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,' Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible Knights of old : We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakspeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.-In every thing we are sprung Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.
WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
I had, my Country !-am I to be blamed? But when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. But dearly must we prize thee; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; And I by my affection was beguiled. What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child?
O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought; Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; Thou faery voyager! that dost float In such clear water, that thy boat
To brood on air than on an earthly stream; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;
O blessed vision! happy child !
Thou art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality;
And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest
But when she sate within the touch of thee.
O too industrious folly!
O vain and causeless melancholy!
Nature will either end thee quite ;
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast thou to do with sorrow,
Or the injuries of to-morrow?
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,
Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;
A gem that glitters while it lives,
And no forewarning gives;
But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.
'Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw
I could some instruction draw, And raise pleasure to the height Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustelling; By a Daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree; She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man.'
IN youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make,— My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake, Of thee, sweet Daisy !
Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few grey hairs; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, That she may sun thee;
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy Wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; Pleased at his greeting thee again; Yet nothing daunted,
Nor grieved if thou be set at nought: And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling,
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The Poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension;
Some steady love; some brief delight ; Some memory that had taken flight ; Some charm of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn,
A lowlier pleasure;
The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness:
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness.
And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing;
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить » |